Into The Mist
Today was back-to-school day after Spring Break. I should have been clicking my heels together and pirouetting down the street in joy. Instead, I rose an hour before waking the kids, made pancakes, selected outfits. Finally, I entered my bedroom and stood beside my king-sized bed, looking down at the flushed, sleeping faces of my three babies.
More often than not, shortly before dawn, the kids will migrate into our room for a few snuggles before the start of the day. It can be crowded, but there is something very secure and peaceful about hearing their breathing, and seeing them heaped into the middle of the bed like a tangle of puppies, bracketed by my husband on one side, me on the other. At seven, five and three, they are surely old enough to sleep all night in their own beds. That last hour before dawn, well...it is a nice way to wake up, being kissed and cuddled by your kids.
Feeling like Suzie Homemaker, I kissed and singsonged them awake. "Get Up! La la la! It's a lovely day! Tra la la!" I shooed them toward the table, where they sat, grumpy, in front of plates stacked with little towers of pancakes, a perfectly square pat of butter melting on top. (Tra la la la laaaaaa!)
"Eat up, my dears!" I made a sweeping, spokesmodel gesture at the table as I put the syrup down with a flourish. "I made these pancakes for you!"
"Grumble mumble bumble."
"I'm not really hungry, Mommy."
"Ooh, my goodness! How about just one, and some juice... orange juice! Mmmmmm!" I toyed with the idea of claiming that it was freshly squeezed orange juice, but come on. That's pushing it.
My eyes landed on my youngest, who was slapping her syrup-coated plate with open palms.
"Oh! No! Oh! Um..." I grabbed a wet paper towel and pushed the plate away as I wiped her hands.
CRASH! I whipped around to see a glass of orange juice tipped over, puddling on the table, running town the leg and pooling on the floor! "Oh! Um! Oh! No!" I grabbed the entire roll of paper towels and did a quick mop up while the kids offered encouragement.
"You missed some, Mommy!"
"My shirt is wet, Mommy!"
"Wookit Meeeee!"
This last interjection from my youngest announced her successful reaquisition of her syrup covered plate, and her application of silver-dollar pancakes to her cheeks. Syrup ran down her neck and she beamed at me as my eyes rolled up in my head and my hair turned gray.
After a hasty clean-up and re-wardrobing, we headed out the door to walk to school. I was fuming. Here I got up early, made a hot breakfast, had a good head start, and the little monsters were unappreciative. Striding through the cool, foggy mist, I pushed the stroller ahead of me like a battering ram. My eyes focused sharply on my older two as they whizzed along on scooters.
"Watch out for the driveway! Stop at the corner! Hey, wait up!" The entire way to school, I was in a low-grade panic. Finally, I kissed them, tucked the scooters away in the stroller, and turned back towards home. My daughter was chanting some little song about syrup and worms, and I let myself breathe as I walked back into the mist.
After the first few blocks, I mellowed out. The manic pancake episode was suddenly funny. The fact that my daughter can't just ride her scooter, no, she has to do arabesques and other tricks, that was funny too. Watching my son expend three times the effort to scoot than he does to walk was adorable. I found myself enjoying them, and enjoying myself in the process. I decided that I'm a much better mother when the children are asleep. Nevertheless, even on the days when my best intentions get trampled, I still find myself laughing. Not in victory at my successes, but rather, at my failures, and the surprising outcomes that living with three unpredictable gnomes bring to any activity.
I'd like to believe that if I were more consistant with the early rising, and the tra la la ing, that my youngest wouldn't create body art with every meal, and that my children would wake with a song in their hearts and a hearty appetite. I'd like to believe that orange juice won't be spilled if I serve it with panache. No matter how I prepare, it seems that life around here is never going to be a well-scripted drama. Alas, we are all improvisational, experiemental theatre, all the time. Truth be told, I like it that way.
Comments
From the title on my feed reader, I almost thought this would be a story relating to Jane Goodall or something ("Gorillas in the Mist"). I could just see it..."Gorilla Parenting"...I was half right :) But isn't that what all us Mommies feel like at one time or another? Stuck in the jungle with a bunch of monkeys. (I wouldn't have it any other way)
...and pancakes stuck to the cheeks...priceless!
Posted by: Vicky | April 24, 2006 1:38 PM
"I decided that I'm a much better mother when the children are asleep."
Amen to that! I think that is why my absolute favorite pictures of my kids are ones where they are sleeping.
Posted by: Mary | April 24, 2006 10:43 PM
What a hillarious picture I now have of your children in the morning! Isn't it so frustrating to try to do something nice and have them complain about it?!!!
Posted by: Rachel | April 25, 2006 12:43 PM
HA! HA! sounds like my day! I wonder sometimes if there is any point to washing the floor; it's like a sign that says,"please spill your juice!"
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